[Intro – Half-spoken, half-snarl. Sparse mandolin plucks under a clap loop.] Ayo... Bless these streets... Bless these meats... Capin’ these clowns while I sip on the blood of Christ. (Bitch.) [Verse 1 – Beat kicks in, accordion wheeze under punchy drums] I ride for the Church, but I dress like sin, Gold thread vestment, cross iced to the chin. Sworn to the cloth? Nah — I carved my own role. A bishop in boots with a body count soul. Twelve years deep in that Holy Land grime, While you paper-pushin’ deals that barely survive. I speak six tongues. I count in seven. You mumble at synods — I rewrite heaven. [Target: Parolin] Yo Pietro! You ghost in the halls like a Vatican shade, Smilin’ so wide while you cut backroom trades. China got crosses traded for chains — But you just nod, call it “balance,” and pray for gains. London real estate? That was slick — Money got laundered, you got rich. Number two to the Pope, but a pawn in disguise, I’m the one makin’ miracles — you just monetize. [Hook – Drunk cardinal choir with tambourine crashes] Pizzaballa, swingin’ thuribles like brass. Preach with a blade, then vanish at Mass. Holy see this! I’m the lion that roars, While you boys play dress-up behind bolted doors! [Verse 2 – Faster. Organ stabs accent bars.] [Target: Tagle] Hey Tagle! Cry us a psalm, you tender dove. Soft hands, wet eyes, preachin’ mercy and love. But Caritas sank while you smiled and waved, And now you just float where the Pope misbehaved. Your “pastoral vision”? That’s sweet — and thin. Can you name one war zone you been in? Dance with the youth, throw glitter in Rome — While I dodge live rounds just to bring Jesus home. [Verse 3 – Beat strips down. Just bass and snare.] [Target: Prevost] And Prevost — "Pope Leo"? Please. Picked from Chicago with that centrist tease. Bishops on call like you're draftin' a team, But your picks all smell like a Francis dream. Used to talk fire — now it’s just fog. Cases in Peru? Filed under “God.” The robe’s gone white, but the blood ain’t clean. You smile for the press, but you ain’t what you seem. [Hook – Even rowdier. Layered with foot stomps, shouts.] Pizzaballa, swingin’ thuribles like brass. Preach with a blade, then vanish at Mass. Holy see this! I’m the lion that roars, While you boys play dress-up behind bolted doors! [Outro – Spoken. Wind-down drums with echo FX.] This ain’t incense, baby. That’s smoke. That ain’t reverence — that’s fear. Three cardinals enter the conclave... But only one walks out the mirror. Bow your heads. Confess your pride. Pizzaballa's here... And the Holy Ghost just picked a side. [Gun cock. Mandolin strum. Silence.]
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